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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29361234">in the aeroplane over the sea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Drug Addiction, Flashbacks, Forehead Kisses, Healing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John Watson is a Good Doctor, M/M, Sherlock is a Mess, Suicide Attempt, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:41:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,503</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29361234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And one day we will die and our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea<br/>But for now we are young<br/>let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see<br/>Love to be in the arms of all I'm keeping here with me</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in the aeroplane over the sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>February 2020</p><p>Sherlock sucked in a full breath of saline air. His hair ruffled in the wind, the dark curls slightly shimmered silver, just a few grey strands that he'd forgotten to pull out this morning. His skin was sticky with the salt from the sea. Ahead, the waves were crashing, and John was in the water with Rosie, poking their toes in the surf. He hurled her up onto his back as she erupted with giggles, and Sherlock watched with the camera switched on in his mind palace, knowing this reel would be stored in a place of honour. Rosie was 6 and a half now, and she would soon be too heavy for John's bad shoulder, then the other, until she was too big for them to hold in their arms at all. Sherlock could remember when he could hold both her tiny feet in one hand. </p><p>"Dad! Come on!" </p><p>Sherlock looked up and smiled, shaking his head. John, who was leaning forward with his phone, snapping a picture of Rosie, looked up and beamed at him, and across the sand they met eyes, sharing this moment. </p><p>"Come on, Lock" John shouted, beckoning with his arms, "You can just get your feet wet, you posh git!"</p><p>Sherlock grinned, blushing and leaning down to roll up his trousers.</p><hr/><p>August 2001</p><p>On a dingy, fraying mattress, a genius with no will to live isn't sleeping. His hair is ratty, his clothes are barely hanging on to him, and the last dose is in his fingers. He calls it that with reverence, he's carried it for years, sewn in the lining of his jacket. 10,000mg of bliss, right on the underside of his armpit, next to his still rising chest. A reminder. </p><p>He doesn't mind this, really, he doesn't.</p><p>He's been careful thusfar. He's cut all his strings. His trust is going to the homeless kids who help him out sometimes. His flat can rot for all he cares. He's settled things with his parents, not that either party will mind this. He wasn't supposed to happen in the first place. Saying goodbye was almost too easy, but he doesn't want to think about them now. </p><p>Mycroft will probably have a glass of scotch, say a nice poem at his grave, and move along. </p><p>And Sherlock is fine with that. </p><p>He rips open the satchet, his fingers shaking. It's only been a few days, but already his body his trembling, feverish and nauseous. He looks down at his lap, taking inventory. </p><p>Fresh needle from the exhange. 10,000 mg cocaine. Leather strap. Spoon. Lighter. razor blade. cigarettes. letter. </p><p>Oh, right. The letter is for whoever finds him. It's got Mycroft's PA's number.</p><p>He wonders if Lestrade will be the investigating officer. He wonders if there will be one at all. Perhaps he'll be erased with a single keystroke to save Mycroft the embarrassment. <em>Should've done it sooner, brother dear</em> He thinks bitterly, itching at his scalp with broken fingernails. </p><p>He lights himself a fag, his fingers shaking so hard he can barely get it in his lips. He sucks in the hot ashy burn, exhaling the relief of nicotine through his nose. He soothes himself. He might not be bothered by his own death, but he's still afraid. He loathes to admit it, but there's not use lying now. He's really fucking scared. What if it goes wrong? What's he going to do if he's a vegetable, if he's trapped up in his brain forever? </p><p>He rubs at the bags beneath his eyes with the butts of his palms, groaning around the glowing cigarette. </p><p>
  <em>Just fucking get it done. </em>
</p><p>He decides that this is a good choice. He steadies his figners hastily as he ties the strap around his upper arm, using his teeth to pull it closed. He pours the contents of the paper satchet into the spoon, holding it with one end, reaching with the other for the lighter. </p><p>It's a lot and it barely fits in the spoon, but the needle can hold all of it, and he doesn't know why he still squirts out the end. An air bubble in his veins would be very much welcome at this moment. </p><p>The empty warehouse is silent, save the creaking wind, and Sherlock pricks himself, proud to find the vein in one go. this little victory feels good and he smiles. </p><p>He pushes in the plunger. </p><p>It hits him almost immediately, he feels like he's in free fall, he can practically feel his clothes fluttering in the wind as he descends, stomach lurching, vision purple and green. He reaches and grasps the cold metal blade before he falls to far, and puts it to his own throat. His fingers aren't shaking as he pushes down into his skin, ripping it across. Jesus it hurts. He chokes, knowing full well he's missed the artery but it was only for insurance, to prove this wasn't an accident. He chokes and hes bloody and his whole body is on fire. He's awake for the first time in a long time, and he screams. </p><p>His can feel himself course across a pond like a stone, feel his skull crashing into every rock, plopping into the gurling blue with a small splash. He blinks his eyes open and he can see Mycroft staring down at him with chubby cheeks and an eyepatch. He reaches up to catch him but he's sinking now. Dissolving in his own spoon with the realization that he doesn't want to die.</p><p>He doesn't want to die. </p><hr/><p>December 24 2009</p><p>Sherlock doesn't remember how long the paperwork took. He doesn't remember the name of the nurse who eagerly helped him fill it out. A Christmas miracle, for the staff at least, that Sherlock's 12 weeks are up. This fucking prison is happy to be rid of him, he's made their jobs far more difficult then he has to. He stretches his neck back, his hair grown out to his ears, the way he likes it. </p><p>They'd had to shave it last time he- </p><p>He groans, he wants to smoke. Why isn't he smoking? He lets his breath out of his mouth, leaning on the bench outside Stone Gate Recovery. It fogs up, and when he sucks it back through his nose, he is somehow disappointed it's just misty air. He closes his eyes and lays back. Mycroft'll send someone he guesses. It's horrifically bright out, the sort of white low hanging clouds that he likes, most of the time. But right now he wants to curse them out for being so damn bright. He doesn't look when the sound of a car rumbles into the carpark. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know that it's a vauxhall insignia. </p><p>The car pulls up, and turns off. </p><p>Sherlock doesn't really care to look up. </p><p>"This all your stuff?" Greg asks, and Sherlock groans, the sound of Lestrade picking up his duffel bag. </p><p>"Yes," He grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. </p><p>"Hey, kid, look at me,"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"<em>Sherlock</em>,"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I'm proud of you, kid, I'm so proud of you,"</p><p>"Sentiment is pedestrian, Lestrade," Sherlock stood and walked to the other side of the car. </p><p>"Well, sentiment is the only thing keeping me from punching you in the face,"</p><p>"Might be a nice wake up,"</p><p>"What the hell were you thinking?" Lestrade slammed the lid of the boot shut with a glare Sherlock's way. </p><p>"It's been 12 weeks, Lestrade, I'm afraid I can't remember."</p><p>"Do you know how angry I've been with you, kid?"</p><p>"Stop calling me that!" Sherlock snapped, biting his lip. He'd never tell Lestrade he liked it. Not sober anyway.</p><p>"You can't keep killing yourself, Sherlock. One day you're gonna succeed, and you don't want that. I know you don't. I certainly don't want that."</p><p>"Well, since I'm certified cured of my addiction, I guess you won't have to worry," Sherlock rolled his eyes and slid into the passengers seat. </p><p>Greg clenched his fists around his keys and rubbed his eyes before opening the driver's side door. </p><p>"I know Kate won't mind me staying over," Sherlock spat, having deduced their destination and Greg's marital situation almost instantaneously. </p><p>"You're not gonna get a rise out of me, Sherlock, I know you too well." Greg sighed. </p><p>"Fuck off," Sherlock hissed, curling himself into the corner of his seat. "Any cases?"</p><p>"Not yet."</p><p>"I've been cleaned for 3 months, Graham."</p><p>"Yeah, because you were in there. Your time starts now, lad. 2 weeks."</p><p>Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on the cold window glass, shrugging his coat around himself, nose tucked into the collar. He didn't like that Greg kept looking at him, not even bothering to hide that he was watching.</p><p>"I'm sorry, dad," Sherlock whispered. </p><p>Greg only nodded, turning the steering wheel, then reaching one hand to ruffle Sherlock's hair fondly. </p><p>"First time you made it all the way through." Greg offered. Sherlock made a noncommittal sound. </p><p>"Fourth times the charm." </p>
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